subterranean gists of low goings-on

2012-01-24T19:43:00.001-08:00

they wanted to run it by me and I thought that strange since they usually run it through me

i’m the preferred skewered kabob

they said they’d like my input; that they’re having problems getting past certain blockages and I thought that strange since they usually are trying to get me out of the way of their more efficient flow

i’m the main constipation consternation

they scheduled time specifically for discussion and I thought that strange because usually they just placed their lunch orders for immediate delivery

my car has a logo on the roof

they said thanks and that they would take my opinions back as part of a further consideration and I thought that strange because usually they just drop tokens in my ear and pull my arm until I spit it all back out

i’m the slot of the day

2012-01-16T09:16:00.000-08:00

When we were in South Africa, I was dumbfounded buy the lack of anger in their art, anger expressed for the evil that was apartheid. And I was told by a gallery owner that tho apartheid had ended 14 years prior, the embedded fear of reprisal was still deep, and that South Africa was still a very conservative country. And today, here in supposedly the free-est country on earth, I read of voter redistricting for the purpose of further disenfranchising the poor and the banning of books in public schools for a perceived moral superiority. And then I remember where I finally found their rage, under transparent floor tiles in a old church, now a museum, a testament to the suffering of decades past. And I found it in the form of their poetry... like it always has been everywhere. Write on people... write on.

2012-01-09T20:13:00.001-08:00

today's thoughts are unsponsored, brought to you by none, non-promotional and bottom line defiant. today's thoughts cost nothing to project or absorb. they require no attention to ritualistic garb. they are not tribal, not adherent. they have no designated file folder. they are algorithm and database free. today's thoughts are white noise under partly cloudy skies.

2012-01-09T20:11:00.001-08:00

when there's one last follicle to go... just one and that's it, the zircon encrusted tweezers can finally be put to rest.

2012-01-09T20:08:00.001-08:00

I know well the hypocrisy of not being able to look into the eyes of meat.

2012-01-09T20:07:00.001-08:00

I’m only aware of the indecencies brought before me, rarely the ones I go out and seek. This is my blindness. That’s why I don’t read newspapers or stop in department stores to check out the stacked floor to ceiling TV sections. That’s why I sold my bottom basement vote to the lowest bidder right after I sold my soul to the one who promised the most and delivered the least. That’s why my parking tickets are soaked in kerosene and made into mobiles, hung perfectly placed to flick lit matches at. That’s why I have a La-Z-Boy. That’s why my heroes bleed their words from bloodied fingers on to paper and bloodied mouths into air. That’s why I drive as far as I do and pack cold cut sandwiches to save money… money for gas because I still have such a long way to go.

2012-01-08T20:41:00.000-08:00

Arnold the unordained orangutang and Harry the Episcopalian opossum were hanging out on a limb discussing the finer art of religious indifference, jiving to tunes of indecency all deviant-like wayward suburban flocks on grass and cheap liquor before senior prom, when Peter the Pentecostal platypus swung by vine-like Tarzan, grasping a highly distressed snake, eating an apple and sinning to high heaven with Eve and her sister Jane. And that was Eden before it wasn't.

2011-12-11T14:16:00.001-08:00

chapbooks like concept albums
chronologically disordered

a senselessness of place

jumpstarts kicked
kickstarts jumped

ill-advised
...most likely the case

2011-12-11T13:40:00.001-08:00

i might be ready to do something here.

i have a job now,
not a real job i'm told
because it's of a public funded nature.

it can't be a real job,
the management is horizontally applied...
not vertical.

there is a reasonable amount
of collaboration
and cooperation
via consensus.

yet there are high expectations
of thoroughness
and accomplishment
via a calm and collected style.

so i have realized a potential for tranquility
while embroiled within an 8hr day earning.

so i might be ready to do something here.

i am angry,
allowing too much to slip past unaddressed,
feeling the weight upon my heart,
needing desperately to shift it to my shoulders.

i might be ready to do something here.

bukowski at his lowest high

2011-10-16T19:02:00.000-07:00

luv in a barber chair

2011-10-16T18:54:00.001-07:00

i breached a couple
of unsuspecting membranes this evening
with minimal penetrated tear

luv on a barstool

2011-10-16T18:52:00.000-07:00

splintered eyelashes
fractured ear lobes
knocked knuckles
naughty lips

G'morning occupiers!

2011-10-09T13:37:00.000-07:00

Twitterville is full of news of suppositions and instigations of the comfortable corporate left trying to hi-jack the movement, trying to infuse a democratic party unifying agenda... trying to mount the face of Obama upon your cardboard. Stay focused... they are still trying to define you for the purposes of absorption and/or annihilation. They can't stand not being able to pigeonhole an agenda, a personality to attach to the cult. They can't comprehend a mass personality. Leaderless movements are not easily corrupted and that drives them and their corporate media drones apeshit.

Have a great day.

#occupy

2011-10-02T15:25:00.000-07:00

edited content so as not to offend
an advertising dollar to protect,
mainstream muffin crumbs
stale quickly on plates served cold,
news i can't use
i suspect...

beyond september 30th...

2011-10-01T12:41:00.000-07:00

today i unglue my mind from adhesive adherences brought on by my own deficiencies. i promised myself this. i don't assume it will be swift or easy. i'd prefer to hear the duct-tape ripping the hairs off my arms in one fell swoop. i'd rather feel that instant pain than the deep penetrating throb that is inevitable. but instead, this long slow haul of all the baggage i've allowed to stack up, blocking the spurts of synapsial ignition i thrive upon, will require a slow deliberate unpacking. the dresser drawers will require an ordered assemblage. no more miss-matched socks. no more throwing shit on the floor. i will sit in front of this keyboard until it again begs for my touch or i will pound it into submission... a my way or the highway kinda thing, if you will.

#OccupyWallStreet

2011-10-01T11:16:00.000-07:00

they won't allow a shift
unless they can capitalize on it

they will throw their
bought and paid for might
against any effort contrary
to the well-being of their coffers

the rules of engagement
are stacked neatly in a corner
on their playing field

obedience is defined
by their standards of civility

it's time for some civil disobedience

of songs of saloons...

2011-07-11T21:18:00.001-07:00

drunkards affixed out of focus,
they'll lurch if they spy you oncoming,
tearing at your skin to measure its depth

they'll want to hold your liver,
passing it around the table
like the day's first loaf of bread
and if they like what they feel,
they might not give it back

they'll claim to be alchemists
of the apothecary within,
their elixers sworn to soothe life's inadequacies

they'll pour their transfusions down your throat,
leaving you slumped soulless over the bar...
leaving you with the check

2011-07-07T11:15:00.000-07:00

this cult of debacle
of faff and blaggery
to leverage,
to persuade
and those paid to pursue,
predict,
and promote...
its outcome for us to absorb,
its implications for us to filter
and its media as dialysis...
a daily kidney punch
just for good measure here...
a little blood in the urine there...
a reminder on the way
to contribute
to the greater good

...

2011-06-30T12:11:00.000-07:00

Down in the lower gates the sediment builds faster. Sometimes the hip waders are a detriment because of suction and it's best to chance going barefoot. Barefoot means lacerations but also means expedience. So to bleed a little more or get left behind are the only two options. The lower gates are no place to be without support, without protection from behind, because that's the way they come at you. They don't like to look you in the face before they strike. They aren't into confrontation. There's too much competition for time spent on leverage and negotiation. They need your meat faster than refined technique will afford.

trippin to the dump...

2011-06-09T09:23:00.001-07:00

junk,
not the kind jpegged
and sent across data streams
to be leveraged for political collapse

junk,
as in all that surrounds us

junk piles
junk stores
junk bins
garage junk
basement junk

we are the result
of our misuse
of refuse
that we refuse
to reuse

i'd like to propose a purpose,
to reclaim our junk for display

i'd like to see Dada infused back
into our insatiable bellies

i'd like to see these testaments
and monuments
of our haste
and waste
transformed into unsanctioned public art
to the total dismay
of those who sanction

i need to find a wheelbarrow...
maybe a flatbed

dosages for the misdiagnosed

2011-05-29T13:42:00.000-07:00

when i travel out of the country,
when out of country travelers venture here,
i always feel the need to apologize

sometimes i sense they have succumbed
to the same disease
and that there is no point

but then i'm reminded, it is a disease
and how does one apologize for a disease,
even though it's a self-inflicted one?

i still want to apologize tho, for the way
we became the template for the mental sickness
spreading across the globe

there might have been an opportunity
to stave off the infection, at one point
but now we are in full blown epidemic

and it is here in my country
where the core of the disease
must be fought, must be defeated

it is here where the idea of
freedom and religion and free market ideology
have melded into an abominable philosophy

of predatory economics sustaining
unimaginable greed and sadistic policies
toward its victims

where a lobbied mindset of unfettered
corporate domination, unregulated with
threats of job loss and ruin

has sunk into our psyches
that this is the way it is,
the way it can only be, the American way

and the blame is placed on us, our fault that
our nurses, teachers, children, mortgagees
are not taking responsibility for their actions

and this is where the disease festers,
this is where the battle for recovery
must be fought

...on the mental turf of America

uninstitutionalized shit

2011-05-23T17:10:00.000-07:00

there's this idea, this
imbedded thought,
that things have to be done
a certain way

and that way requires
adherence to rule and order
and only will ascension occur
when those dues are paid

that accolades and kudos
of peers and mentors will
only sway the judges, those
appointed to give permission

that your work is ready
to be hung,

to be published,
to be mounted,
to be priced
and thus prized

because it has been tested
with formality
and under the careful eye
of due diligence,
tested for compliance

jurored for worth,
jurored for acceptance,
jurored for admittance
into the halls of the qualified

and when the truth you started
out with sits before you
staring back into your now
jaded black sellout soul,
when you finally receive
the just desserts you deserve

that is when you
can really call yourself
--artist

no time to dally

2011-05-23T06:37:00.000-07:00

within this place now
where there's no time
for the trivialities
of disengagement

within this place now
where participants are
more than aware
of the signifance
of why

within this place now
no longer available for
manipulative inaccuracies
of the unkind kind

within this place now
where art surpasses logistics
replacing the false advertings
on the plate,
and in the air

on a bend in the slough...

2011-05-22T21:05:00.000-07:00

i take the barely wide back roads
because they have soft shoulders
like a woman's shoulders
that can snag a car
like a wandering lover
belonging to an inattentive driver
fumbling with her dress zipper
and they have deep drainage ditches
to be ditched within
like within her open heart
between her open arms
her open legs

i used to detour on my own,
not needing a reroute for the usual
suspicions of a repair or resurface,
i used to let my mind empty out
of clutter on my way to somewhere
and the steering wheel was just
a place for my hands to rest upon,
taking me to new discoveries
in places i've already been

and then i was drawn into purpose
beyond my own design
and my time shortened
and requirements made it impossible
for me to relinquish the wheel
during the supposedly
simplest act of getting to where
i had to be

and now there is this place,
a zig and a zag in a barely wide road
on a bend of a slough
and there are people in the streets
and art in the alleys
and the town is capped
at both ends with beer
and the smell of salt water and mud
and there's only one way to get there

slow,
snagged,
like in the arms of a lover

of eco-armaments

2011-04-02T10:44:00.000-07:00

sentient spaceships adrift
on plains and deserts
between moat encircled walls
and predator outbacks

land-locked leviathans,
marsupials on wheels,
homes for the
disconnected
disjointed
disenfranchised
dilapidated
dissed

mother

of upheaval...

2011-03-28T13:38:00.000-07:00

I wanted to go looking for the earth this morning. I have missed it--it's smell of moist must, or the arid taste of chalk coating my lips, and the feel of it between my toes as I collapse onto it all the while begging its forgiveness. I've read about it quite a bit lately, about fissures of subduction and waves of recoil extracting their toll upon humanity. And then the aftermath residuals we bring upon ourselves, of and by our own ignorance and greed, placing in the way of this earth's stretches and yawns, those mechanisms of ease and convenience that can meltdown and cook us and everything else from the inside out.

I wanted back the earth I thought I remembered; the one I barely can cling to as it hurls itself, magnificently spinning in tune with nights and days and seasons around a star that is doing the same, as the universe it all resides in continues to unravel. But maybe I've never known such a place as just that earth. Maybe I've only dreamt of times of communion with the source: unaffected, undisturbed, unblemished. How would I really know it if I saw it? How far would I have to travel to find such an earth? Could I afford to get there?

Can I afford not to?

...

2011-03-25T12:15:00.001-07:00

The post-modern cup still runnith over, dousing any neo-modern spark that could develop into a flame. Until impeded implants are implemented, we're doomed to an impoverishment of rinse and repeat. Imperialistic impedance if ya ask me.

...

2011-03-25T11:21:00.001-07:00

the perfume of that memory,
the one just triggered
by passing thru
that last micro-climate,
the one dripping
of diesel and rusted iron

that one

...

2011-03-25T11:20:00.001-07:00

I've seen the dirt covered roads snaking between outland warlord clans and city state bureaucrats, somewhere near lands end just short of inaccessible bluff and beach. I've seen gypsies in caravans encircled on low tide mud flats, dancing in Doc Martin's and white parachute jump suits and leather helmets and only to Norwegian folk music. I know where they're going.

Rites of the Infernal Equinox

2011-03-20T14:39:00.000-07:00

Upon mowing the lawn... and yes, in our particular inversion zone, lawn mowing begins at the beginning of March and ends after Thanksgiving no matter what pagan rituals are performed or chemicals of mass destruction are applied. And yes, there is much that has little to do with real grass and more to do with moss and blackberry vine sprouts and dandelions dead or dormant. And yes, moisture is a factor not only as in usually mowing in the rain (tho not today) but as in over a sod so soaked it only really dries out in July and August (sometimes). And yes, what's good about this is the mower does not really need to be prepped for winter storage (if you consider that a good thing) because grass never sleeps here, it just slows down.

Anyway, I digress...

Upon mowing the lawn, I stepped into a sizable pile of deer poop and I just wanted everyone to know that I am okay with that.

...

2011-03-16T00:26:00.001-07:00

It doesn't feel right
writing anything more
about downtown
like there's not much more
that can be extracted

It's just the most recent version
of what has usually been
so I'm done with that
and moving on to another place
another quadrant

like places are divisible by two

somewhere there
somewhere that sounds different
and smells like diesel
feels like oatmeal soap
and the people breakout
in revelry for days with the
slightest of provocation

somewhere where the night
cools allowing for a reprise
from the day's parched air
somewhere where the noon
day sun takes the sting out of
the first daylight air
and old tired bones react accordingly

and I would stay there long enuf
to extract what I need
draining all the life from that place
placing it in a bowl
gently folding it all together
then serving it back to everyone
and thing on an uncovered plate
with love dripping off the sides
and onto the table

in need of different watering holes

2011-03-14T10:36:00.000-07:00

Bukowski I cannot be. It's tearing me down no matter how much I enjoy the moment; how much I glean from it. How much it piles stacks of fodder to stoke the fire. I'm not able to transcend the aftermath. My resolve has begun to dissolve into massive head aches and foul stomach episodes and just after two beers. This disturbs me greatly. I've always been a six-beer, bottle of wine / four-shot entity. And now I'm deteriorating into sobriety by the effects of sleepless nights and what I assume to be my own version of a yeast infection. Brewer's yeast. My aging organs have begun the process of rejection.

Never to believe a void is filled without another being created or vise versa, it is evident I need a new addiction. I need a new addictive labeling for replacement of the old. I've made a list of some initial potentials:

Pot head. The upside is tranquil days of carefree communion with all things living or severe psychotic episodes of paranoia. Yes, I see the latter as an upside. Writers can use paranoia. The downside is the potential for unmotivated disconnect from purposefulness.

Sex fiend. Sex addiction is basically for the under 50 crowd, at least without pharmaceutical support. Porn is fun except it obnoxiously pushes, overcrowds the synapses with thought and images of the less subtle and nuanced. It's also a bandwidth hog.

Opium addict. See pot head, multiply by 10,000 and add needles. Never mind.

Speed freak. Could lead to needles and yet there's still that paranoia thing so we might be getting closer. But there's a socially unacceptable freakish weirdness to the wired at such levels and that can cause the implementation of straight jackets.

The answer is now most evident. Red Bull. I can get it at wholesale by the case. The heart palpitations and paranoia are available in a can with maybe some weight-loss and I can drive while drinking. I will become a Red Buller until something better comes along. I will recycle. I will write like a motherfucker all night long.

a taste

2011-02-26T11:55:00.000-08:00

I have a guitar I keep behind the counter. I bring it out for 5 or 10 minute bursts of cerebral realignment when I need a different noise in the room, an alternative to a deafening silence or the wish one was in place. It's a little old but not really by guitar age standards. I bought it in 1982 from a music shop at a mall in a suburb outside of Dayton, Ohio. It was just after Christmas when items of consumer acquisition like guitars hang on walls with colored tags attached, penned with meanings denoting a difference in value than other times of the year. It is a major brand name but I believe it was assembled with lesser payed South Korean hands prior to the kingdom of Hyundai. Second or third world hands were probably considered more apropos for lesser quality brand name assemblage at the time. Lesser was best.

I seem to play it okay. I'm probably at least better that most who don't play the guitar and considerably worse than some that do, which probably puts me in the middle of the road with some dead armadillos and marmots and a flattened beer can. But quality is not what this is all about.

In all the time I've owned this guitar, I've only broken one string, the same string, probably a dozen times. It's always the 4th one down from the top or third one up from the bottom, unless you are left handed then it's the opposite. I suppose if one were musically inclined enough for proper reference it would be designated the "G" string. My thought was to try not to confuse anyone over a type of underwear if possible. I don't remember how to read music anyway and only play by ear, so I just call it the string that always breaks.

No matter what technique I employ--style I choose to play, from bluegrass to jazz to folk to blues to rock, from cords to melodic, that one string is the only one that ever breaks. I have drawn some conclusions considering this anomaly.

This string is the center of the guitar universe within the context of how our music culture defines that which is tunable and listenable. We like what we play and hear and the premature death of this string is the result of that reality. Sacrifices must be made. Collateral damage is accepted. Acceptable loss is acknowledged as in most situations within the human predicament. This string carries a heavy load and dies for the sins of others.

It is with this in mind and as one of extreme contrarian inclinations, I have decided to stand up and fight for the right of the "G" string to same pursuit of happiness afforded the other 5 strings. I have decided not to subject it to anymore abuse just because I like my version of "Hotel California". Therefore, this guitar no longer has a 4th string from the top and 3rd up from the bottom.

This took a little while to get used to. Notes disappeared in the middle of riffs and the fingers that normally hit that string still went there to no avail. Oddly, it became apparent that the middle finger was the one that missed that string the most. I am assuming I noticed this this due to the decrease in size of the finger's callus. It's okay though. That middle finger still gets plenty of use in other applications, particularly in traffic.

Also and more importantly, specifically from the fame and fortune potential side of the equation, I have developed a different style. I call it 'grunt'. Bass guitars kind of do 'dirnt' when plucked and we all know low end distortion belongs to 'grunge' so that puts me back in the middle again with the armadillos and thus... 'grunt'. Since I'm not that great of a musician, I'm going to have to rely on marketing and my particular brand of obnoxiousness inserted into the cult of personalty to really bring this to the forefront as the next "thing" in popular music. Wish me luck.

unindelible rivers of shit

2011-02-21T13:04:00.000-08:00

I can't produce anything of worth within these surroundings. It's like knowing the artist whose work you just purchased and hung on the wall, knowing what a shit and poor excuse for a human being they are, and having to be reminded of that every time you look at their painting... no matter the content, no matter the beauty. I live here. I have participated in the payment for these walls, these illusions of comfort, contentment, sanctuary. I have wasted the king's jewels on a frivolous war of cerebral attrition.

I'm still searching for a place without whereabouts. It cannot be borrowed. I may never find it. Whereabouts can be located. They can be penetrated and membranes can be breached and that will lead to disturbance. It is in such a place I can allow my thoughts to flow freely, unabated, and without resentment. It is where I have the remote and the batteries. I have it all.

It doesn't mean I won't still suffer. I won't create perfection. I won't feel the bliss of ignorance. I may flow tho. I may spew forth. It might stick against the wall. And it will be frequent and repetitive and eventually the shit will begin to fall to the wayside. Will I be happy? Probably not. Happiness is not what I pursue. Significance and purpose are my prey. Contribution. Something greater than a life by default.

If this is a gift, it will not be shared from the bindings of these whereabouts.

un fucking real

2011-02-18T08:14:00.000-08:00

If I don't take from you
before you take from me,
I'll lose and the gates
will rust
from a corrosive lack
of patriotic pride

Losing is the death option
If we can't kill you
we'll kill ourselves trying

If the playing fields are equal,
they must be deemed immoral
The rules of pillage apply

If my actions are considered illegal,
the law must be changed

Once I have amassed my police and military
to subjugate you for compliance,
once the trickle-up is complete,
feel free to revolt and die trying
for that is what it will take
to unseat me and my kind.

If you can catch me,
you can try me and kill me
for my transgressions

If you can catch me,
because I'll have friends
and they'll let me store all
of the productions
of your piddly lives stolen
from you

See, no matter,
I'll probably still win

Go ahead and assume power
Do you think you can keep it?

Form your unions
and storm the halls of governance
Make the evening news

You are and always will be my slaves
It is your destiny
My god has deemed it so
and only I and my kind
are holy, beyond reproach

You will see

definitively speaking...

2011-02-07T13:49:00.000-08:00

This is a weblog. Like a diary. It's just out there for others to see and judge and I'm naked full frontal forward with my dick hanging loose so people can point and laugh and I am to grasp it all as good skin thickening circumstance. Fuck yeah.

So I'll be more tag oriented and respect the readers' rights of refusal concerning genre-esque-ness. This is a blog and if I'm able to write my mind and others are able to read my mind by searching it out via formality then the world can change a little, right?

So I had this dream of driving a rig of some sort with a group of fellow like-minded sorts. We were headed to the airport and this really large transportation device had a switch for transferring power from fuel to electric and back, much like the new wave of half-ass eco-friendly autos that are making the hip liberal-elitist scene. The only problem was, when switching from electric to gas, there was a wait of 3 hours so things could sync up and run properly. That was fine and dandy until I ran out of electrical juice 1 hour and 80 miles before we were due at the airport. So we all sat around at a BP Station eating leathery Danish and smoking Shermans like some prima donna gay truckers for Jesus while the cops were after me for an abominable list of moving violations.

There... properly tagged like a motherfucker...

2011-02-07T13:18:00.000-08:00

I don't think I'm able to write like a motherfucker. I've tried and without interspersed moments of contemplative detachment, I can't bring myself to the keyboard. Even writing this is a chore, because I'm attempting to force a stream onto the screen and my mind has not opened to it. Not all that much. Not all the way within this moment. It's okay tho, because today it's somewhat working. Tomorrow, it will be fucked as usual for a Tuesday.

I'm still pissed about the Super Bowl extravaganza. So much self serving patriotic bullshit all because of captive audience syndrome. And then salt rubbed in the wound by having to watch some offensive and gender and poor people specific degrading commercials. We are what we eat and what we are dining on lately is our own ill-informed low-brow brains. We are our own malnourishment. We are becoming the white trash of our dreams and we are taking the rest of the races with us. And they appear to be following. Maybe for survival. Maybe because they've been bought.

Mediocrity in the form of kitsch reigns supreme and the applauders think it's edgy avant garde.

tormentia

2011-02-06T10:40:00.000-08:00

I wrote the most incredible pages in my head last night as I slept and as a matter of unconscious habit, was unable to write them down. They are now lost forever or at least temporarily, to reappear tho if so, probably outside of their original context. This is one of my torments. I have more than a few that gnaw and gorge upon my sanity. Somewhere is a purged puddle of vomit for someone to step in.

The human audible noises of the universe are burning my life-cycle out faster than what must be perceived normal. They are broadcast on all available channels and at maximum volume. I'm finding it more difficult as time passes to separate or filter them into pockets to be pulled from for absorption when I'm ready. I spend precious time maniacally searching for the off buttons. I collapse into forced seclusion at the peril of risking my own well-being and relationships I hold dear. I am folding in upon myself.

Switches I used to turn off and on at the drop of a hat are worn into uselessness. There no longer is a toggle effect. That hat I wear now is the same each day, each moment. I no longer maintenance capable. Custodian is not part of my resume. This is obviously a disintegration for surviving in a world that requires the myth of the multi-tasker at every station. I sometimes feel the street soon awaits.

Meanwhile, William Burroughs would have been 96 today and Ronald Reagan 100. I would have given my existence to have had their historical roles reversed in their respective moments of greatest triumph. The world as we know it would have collapsed in a splendid horrid calamity but with possibly the last available lawn chair and bucket of beer within reach, the view would have been delicious.

2011-02-05T11:35:00.000-08:00

i get angry from the view perched on my side,
my perception of what is blatant ignorance
that projects and promotes so much hatred

it has to do with their zealotry and fanaticism
how they wrap their truths around their ideology
instead of their ideology around the truth

it makes me want to fuck them in their ear
because that is where the restriction is and
blockage is and i sometimes think a good ear fucking
will open it up, stretch out the conduit,
allow a sense of human decency to find a place to roost

i know it won't be pleasant
because there's not much room to begin with
and the ear canal walls are all gripped
with cartilage and gristle that will snap
and grind and crunch as i penetrate deeper
with each thrust on my way
to synapsial and cerebral cores

and i know that won't be possible
i now my elixir of truth
will never reach those cores
because that is not how the anatomy pans out

i realize i'd have to burrow from upside down
into the ear canal
because it doesn't lead to the brain
but instead follows a path behind the jaw
to the back of the throat

and what good would it do
to deposit my truth jizz
behind the jaw bone
of an ass

2011-01-30T16:24:00.000-08:00

I'm dreaming again of eco-villages, self sustaining modular abodes, gardens, communal without the overly earthy luddite lurking from behind the granola bin. I'm thinking of used quick conversion mobile homes, cargo trailers, RV's, stacked, twisted, split, and fused. I'm thinking of a creative mindset existence. I'm thinking intentional and respected individualistic expression within a communal whole.

This ain't utopia babies. This is life. This is rolling proactively because the people who are supposed to figure it out, the ones that are paid to structure it all, the ones that elevate themselves so expertly at everyone's expense, have their heads stuffed up their total assess.

It is, babies...

2011-01-25T13:29:00.000-08:00

The locals here call it "The Boeins". Under a more industrial index component it is formally known as Boeing. They build big ass airplanes, a lot of them and it takes a lot of employable people to do it. I decided to try to be one of those people.

I've been in this situation before. I've been incorporated before and even in the Avionics industry. I never went forth with poetry tucked under my arm though, so now I think this will work out... if I get in. If I don't, I can say that worked out to... based on previous incorporated experiences.

I oddly found myself eligible for a crane operator job. They lift heavy ass shit and move it into position, killing or maiming people as little as possible along the way. I hope it's one of those you ride to the top and stay in the cab all day with no one around. I hope it's really high up and I get paid by the foot. High up would be great. I could see a lot of shit. Plus I've got something I'd like to whisper in God's ear while I'm there.

I also was eligible for some other positions, but I really want that crane operator job. I want control of heavy shit. Of course, if it were to fall over while I'm in it, and I guess they are sometimes known to do that, it would probably be bad. Maybe it's best if I don't whisper into God's ear.

2011-01-23T16:59:00.000-08:00

this evening for dinner
i'd really like a delightful disaster
something of a beautifully elegant collapse
or maybe an exquisitely savage undoing
with marring by an unmitigated gall

i want to taste the blood
i want to hear of it first hand

but more than likely...

i'll just get pizza

enuf of residuals...

2011-01-23T12:42:00.000-08:00

I can feel I have little time left. It is a feeling and not an agenda. There are no plans to expedite my demise that I know of. I just don't think I'll be around much longer and well, of course, define longer in the bigger picture of a grander universe.

It's not a circumstance I particularly fear. I have no control over it anyway... really. And I have no worry or expectation of an eternal afterlife. It is or it isn't. At least running beneath the belief system radar, that is how I find it.

At 54 this might seem a little too early to be considering. But I have known people who dropped dead that were younger. Wow. What a trip. Functioning fine and then like someone flipped the off switch. And my particular rattle and hum has always reverberated at a higher resonant frequency and I just think maybe I'm on an accelerated existence burnout than most. I'm sure there are meds to dampen the acuteness of the pace but, fuck... residuals.

So here's the problem, the balancing of expedience and purpose with respect to this lessening time and responsibility to and for and from. I don't appear to have much time to fuck around with tangents and irrelevancies any more. Trial by error has to be replaced with trial by fire... like ants in the pants... like fire ants in a non-preferred orifice.

I don't want to be any more curmudgeonly than I already am, but the metaphorical foot like a sledgehammer is about to come down concerning extraneous amounts of other peoples residuals smudging the last leg of my journey.

2011-01-21T15:44:00.001-08:00

this is only a test this is only a test this is only a test this is only a test

2011-01-18T10:50:00.001-08:00

industrial disease as it such once was
a manufactured residual
and socially networked now
into an acceptable STD

...

2011-01-16T08:38:00.001-08:00

the problem is I was rural
bound at the peak
of urban decay

never feeling the street grunge
between my toes

never feeling the fear
of midnight

2011-01-14T10:55:00.000-08:00

watching old people
brace against the wind
hanging on to hat and scarf
on the way to places defined worthy
of their frequency
to cash a pension check
to buy some eggs
maybe some bread

it pains them to do so
to step up on a curb
to be late for the light
to extract the exact change
in line from worn and tattered purse
with impatient stares
breathing down an unwelcome warmth
upon stiff necks
but it is what they do

of course it wont be what i'll do
i'll make myself aerodynamic
i'll wear cheese-wedge clothing
hats
scarfs
shoes
turning diagonally into the wind
to deflect
to propel
like a sailboat captain would

i wont buy eggs
i wont buy bread
i wont count my pennies in front
of people with urgent needs
i'll stand on street corners
dividing which way the wind blows
while offering moral guidance for food
i'll pick up litter and deposit it
back into the hands from which it came

i'll bathe in the mud-puddle spray
of passing cars on their urgent way
to get in line behind old people
digging for that last eight cents
that last grasp of control in the midst
of the great indignity
called being old

and i'll laugh out loud at them
when they exit their lines
totes and bags too full
of their immediacies
to foresee or recognize the inevitable
in denial of it
i'll laugh loud and hard
until someone complains
and then maybe a little more

Prior to Opening...

2011-01-14T08:44:00.000-08:00

when it's dark out
within the downtown perimeter
black and blustery and wet
and the street sheen from the streetlamps glare
hides the crosswalk lanes
and other pedestrian borders
i always get the feeling i just wasted
my money on that last espresso

i know the energy required
to get beyond the induced dimensional forebodings
of blindly wondering so early
where so many once were but now aren't
tho soon to return
will overtake the caffeine infusions
and just like after an epileptic seizure
i will want a long hard sleep

only a watcher of the keepers and doers
knows where to find these
places and times of pause
between startup and shutdown
and if i had the power
i would widen the gap further
pushing the boundaries
until i had a little more company

warlord

2011-01-10T10:21:00.000-08:00

and babies become the collateral
debris beneath your god,
and your way is paved with
bones you cleaned bare,
and you still hide behind your guns

because you need that enforcement,
because you need to drink from
the blood chalice to sustain yourself,
and your sheep bleed for you
the only way they know

functional dystopia for the formerly here and soon to be now...

2011-01-03T15:27:00.000-08:00

I awoke three times only to fade back deep into the dream. It had latched on to me with quite the grip. Each time I sort of started over but it never played out the same. There was always the escape window three stories up and the concrete below. There was always the narrow, barely navigable ledge we would use to nudge our way around the building. It was a huge building the size of a dorm. We did it to get to the back of the building where the three stories turned into one and we could jump without breaking our legs. We did this in a barrage of bullets, large ones that tore into flesh, exploding out the other side of the body.

The ground dwellers wore black and were masked. We wore ragtag cammo and carried our own weapons that we rarely got to fire. There was water being channeled around the ledge. It was important. Our leaders would reappear at the beginning of each trip. Each trip with no purpose and they would be playing for the other side, setting us up as targets each time I reentered the dream. We were in the midst of Sisyphus's myth.

I tried to protect everyone, and I could hear each time the bullets entered their bodies. I would reach for them as they fell back off the ledge. I waited in vain for the bullets with my name on them so I could finally wake up.

...

2010-12-23T07:43:00.001-08:00

Why the poets aren't resisting. Why the poets aren't dissidents. Why the poets round here write nuthin at all, they just sit back and let it all be.

...

2010-12-22T21:53:00.001-08:00

sometimes i run my tongue across and around my teeth and wonder if they have always been this way.

sometimes i stare at my hands in the morning when i'm the most clear and wonder aloud, "how did that happen?"

sometimes i can barely get the nerve to wonder where my invisibility went, the stuff that used to put me out there on the front lines.

sometimes i need someone to remind me i'm not here forever.

...

2010-12-21T04:08:00.001-08:00

If I retreated it would be in a Zen trailer, a portable self and it would be in a land with a subtle backdrop where hues are nuanced with splashes of arid waves.

I would live out the last of a subliminal existence amidst ancient realities, amongst coyote and snake and I would do it riding in a beat up rust free pickup.

I would eat peyote for breakfast and sip bourbon in the afternoon and when it cooled at night I would bone all the lonely widows lined up by the dryers at the laundromat trying to stay warm.

Then I would crawl back into my trailer and read my poetry aloud through the crank out windows to accompany the cricket rhythms and crooning coyotes.

I would tune my guitar to those night sirens and strum until morning, knowing I was never really here to begin with.

...

2010-12-21T03:41:00.001-08:00

I hear there are lines but I only see them in news clips with faces distraught and worried like it's someone's or everyone's last chance. They project the desperate woe.

Along both sides of the river road men and sometimes women with overstuffed backpacks make their way to and from somewhere. They project the acceptance woe.

I hear a bailout occurred and some tax relief along with assurances that systems remain secured for a greater good. They project the smug woe... is them.

2010-12-20T17:32:00.000-08:00

listening to transfers
a handshake or two
negotiating the byways
a bit
a byte
a bolt
for you

...

2010-12-18T01:06:00.001-08:00

The air pulled back like a god had inhaled after long forgetting to breath, like the water on an ocean shore before a tidal wave.

It felt as if there were great weights burdened upon souls as the space between everything disappeared and boundaries of the dissimilar gave way to predatory overlaps and disingenuous separations jostling for leverage.

Lungs deflated, collapsing into a great suffocation and the world turned blue and there was nothing one could do.

...

2010-12-10T03:27:00.001-08:00

the barrage begins in the wee hour, voices hurling in from multiple fronts, jarring the dream works of content, calling for action beyond a daily regular maintenance schedule, beyond a change in direction, beyond the oppressions of existence, and then the waves of sleep again lap the shores of a weathered coast, the push of exhaustive tides, and the panic subsides

2010-12-08T14:35:00.000-08:00

the fuck you say today
should be directly
relational
to how badly
you got fucked yesterday

...

2010-12-05T23:33:00.001-08:00

tomorrow morning,
roaming the streets
in search of a question
in the form of an answer,
coffee in hand,
rhetorical as it sounds,
as innocent as it can be

...

2010-12-04T03:41:00.001-08:00

it's 3am and my adjectives are
out carousing about, whoring
around

...

2010-12-02T22:21:00.001-08:00

I never plan to think of them and their flesh, it just happens and it's not obsessive and no stalking ever comes out of it nor would there ever be any because the thoughts never last beyond the moment and there's never any wet dream shit, like wet dream shit ever happens anymore anyway.

They come in threes because that's all I can handle when it comes to micro lusting and they always surprise me when I least expect them to appear and for a micro second I think of them between casual sentences in that way, the way of man on the prowl sex shit.

No two of the three are thought of the same way. One I flash thoughts of slow teasing, and one is all about total vagina immersion, and one just pure primal animal like ravaging but all that can change in a differing nanosecond.

I suppose this is great I still have the capabilities for retaining such moments and though I'd like to think the thoughts are mutual times 3, they most likely are not. There are slight flares of a flirt here and there but that is so human normal and I know if any of them knew I what I was really thinking in that micro flash, there instantaneously would be a frantic exit with nervous darting eyes and equally nervous apologies.

I know this all really just comes down to scent. That's always the way it is, men being dogs.

Love story.

...

2010-11-28T09:14:00.001-08:00

today i am driving a car in a parade. in the back seat will be one of a very few former local dignitaries presented to a gauntlet of appreciative onlookers. there will be children there, but they are there for a different reason. Santa.

this former VIP is retired, past his prime, soon to die and this is his version of the gold watch. we are in a recession.

i was reminded i volunteered for this task. i don't quite remember it unfolding that way. this happens with me... to me most of the time. i am given just enough direction to make a fool of myself.

the car i am to pick up may or may not be a convertible. i am supposed to decorate the inside with lights... my design? i have to show up on time at a beginning and perform parade-like until a supposed ending. i am not sure where those two locations are.

i could have refused, but then i would have been given bad marks for non-contributory behavior. i wonder why allow humans to manipulate me this way.

i wonder what i should wear.

i wonder if the VIP likes herb.

...

2010-11-27T22:12:00.001-08:00

nothin like an ADHD, Aspergers, bipolar after dinner cocktail to really hit the spot

nothin like the noise of suspense from a near epiphany

nothin like falling asleep with a hand cupped between her legs

nothin like symbols crashing in a bowl of chicken scratches

nothin like a fortification before the lure

...

2010-11-27T08:55:00.001-08:00

i'm not able to be where i am

a post tday toast

2010-11-25T22:55:00.001-08:00

did we eat until we were comatose...
food coma they call it
food baby is what we bore
tho we're carrying it with pride

the result will pass
and the fucking was delish
a salute to the conquering
of a continent
where now only monetary
borders matter

let's do it again next year

concerns for a truncated week

2010-11-23T07:51:00.001-08:00

I'm thinking of a screen play. Zombie Thanksgiving. Only this time it's all the Turkeys that are the undead.

Not absolutely sure but statistically likely, our turkey was probably mass hatched, crammed and stacked, mass fed, artificially accelerated, assembly line processed and packaged for immediacy. The mechanisms of availability are relentless. All hail the gravy.

Icy streets and intersections = fun fun fun for the crosswalk matador.

...

2010-11-21T00:14:00.001-08:00

Where have all the gargoyles gone? Granted, they are difficult at times, deflowering maidens and running off with children to make into slaves in their mines, digging for precious metals or some other nonsense.

Where would we have been without gargoyles? Gothams without needing a watchful eye glancing above, fearful of being swooped down upon, attacked without provocation, preyed upon as food or random victim.

We should find a way to bring them back.

...

2010-11-20T08:05:00.001-08:00

Awoke to salamanders and pterodactyls dancing in my head to Warren Zevon singing "Lawyers, Guns, and Money."

About the fuck time things are starting to loosen up.

About the fuck time the brain water broke.

About the fuck time the cerebral enemas worked as advertised.

...

2010-11-16T07:09:00.001-08:00

just when my madness had settled, physical exhaustion tempers it as does alcohol, and a heavy dose of the former with a chase of the latter appeared to be a sufficient cocktail, when the first fierceness of the season ripped through the Salish maze, finding its way into my realm, blasting clean a new template for me to trash.

fuck.

2010-11-15T18:14:00.001-08:00

I climbed a tree yesterday. I've done it before but long ago. Feet wedged between the V's of limbs to trunk attachments. There were times I thought I might stay there for the view and the curious looks of passersby. Then I sawed off some limbs and it didn't seem like all that good of an idea.

2010-11-15T15:04:00.001-08:00

dire trouble
in the rubble
of the portable self

being too easy to move
to lose the groove
whenever it becomes uncomfortable

2010-11-15T15:03:00.003-08:00

these ill eagle alienated
none far away from not
this distance of the day
this dejour
sweetest of sour
spiciest power
pots hot and steamy
mole’ creamy
we don’t need no steengking border
that blissful ordered disorder
where what is ours stays ours
we being first and all

blue lines dotted lines red barrier
off shore surveillances and dampest suspicions
there are papers not in order
inadequate compliance crumpled and stained
with the desires of the less than expected
and the sun cannot be blocked out
a shadowless landscape where nothing
can hide and crawl cool
where exposed underbellies ready
for colder steel edge disembowelment
entrails stuffed back into orifices
sent home packing
minimum wage lacking
insatiable green card envy

sage brush tumbleweed roll
hopping—skipping dry sand—dirt—stone
wind whipped agave’ sprout
the corrugated sheet metal bangs
against cinder block walls
and joshua bravely bends
knowing well the resonant frequencies
of desperation and barriered forces
and how they cancel each other out
and as dry cracked eyes scan the horizon
the skin shrinks—
pulling gravity down away from the bone
moistureless yet yielding a rare spittle
brought forth from a rogue runoff
and amongst the death song
a promise
a hope beyond the razor wire
if just…

2010-11-15T15:03:00.001-08:00

the forest brings chaos—
a calamity of color,
layered noise without hierarchy,
and earth odors combined into a single scent

the mind is forced to stretch—
and calculated perception unravels
as expected paths wear thin;
the anticipated panic before the calm

the depth overwhelms—
derailment of agenda,
a portal on the way… returning,
touching the source… the now

this frenzy of sense fades into nothing—
as the primal re-roots deep for nourishment
and we can chose to stay there
lost in the madness of origin

or expand beyond the treeline—
knowing this… a reminder of the inner cosmos;
a centering before we attach ourselves:
encoded riders embedded within the light

2010-11-15T15:02:00.001-08:00

we used to eat our enemies to absorb their power
it was the ultimate placebo

but now we are civilized
nuetron clean in a morbidly detached rationale

why not again dine on eloquence and grace—
a little respect if you please?

2010-11-15T15:01:00.002-08:00

and in the beginning… long and intent on the lawlessness of anonymity, its reckless abandonment of responsible notions—motions deliberate and under the guise of a mask. is this where all anti-heroes cower with the fear to take a stand? to stand and be counted? to draw a line in the sand? is this the terrorism of the day or patriotism of the past?

maybe an experiment with releasing ego into the mist. a place where the cult of impersonality drags itself against the grain knowing there is no chance of reward. what could one possibly leverage from this approach? a minimal bent ear. arched eyebrow? an instill-ation? no categories, blogroll, friends to link to, a community of the like-minded to gel—what if a contagion is inserted? what if a vileness is virally unleashed and unruliness rules the day and night?

a comment section offered up to any and all anonymous be with no attempt at rebuttal or denial and probably not even the curiosity to read them—let the feeding frenzy begin. but then there is so much spam that accumulates and that type of perceived entitled access ires the most. to moderate is to control. permission denied. this is a one-way communique.

personal logs are the rage. who needs big brother if the willing go so willing into the void? trying to not evoke the i-me-my… no claim of copyright—no ownership issues.

a title-less morph into the atmosphere of this bazillion ton rock upon which we are perched, hurling thru the cosmos for no particular reason other than momentum, accumulating one non-absolute after the other, and still trying to stamp a brand of significance on each approaching horizon. what a bizarre place to be…

2010-11-15T15:01:00.000-08:00

tossed about adrift in an open wound,
a wide gash
freshly slashed
by blade wielding pirates
gushing with each pulse
each breath
as the captain abandons ship
and the soon to be castaways
drown in a sea of red

but alas,
another commission will be granted
such talent cannot go untapped
such guile and style unmatched
this pilot adjusts for the wind
this pilot charts and plots
steers clear of the lure of sirens
laughs in the face of neptune
treads high above the mariana
seeks warm and welcome ports
and praise is sung—
songs for the new hero…
until the next leak

2010-11-15T13:54:00.000-08:00

like licking morphine
dribbling from your lips
barefoot in drifts of
windblown snow left unattended
during the last passing low

working my tongue beneath
an eyelid calloused from contacts
finding the necessary friction
to slither further within
the entry of my choice

knowing how that violation feels
how long that one way stroke lasts
not wanting to inhale
not wanting to gasp
swimming behind the faraway gaze

...

2010-11-15T09:43:00.001-08:00

this soft boiled existence with
so many content to not disturb the peace
channeling rage into pretty things
so many pretty things
so little distractions to step over
on the way to the pretty things
the garbage piles up out of sight
the dust neatly swept beneath the carpet
the acceptable casualties for the sake of ideology
tucked away in an approved nook and cranny

the new sustainable gliding frictionless
over the trampled disposable dispossessed

...

2010-11-14T18:45:00.001-08:00

if I was an insertionee
instead of an insertioner,
i'd let poetry fuck me

as it stands,
i'll have to resort
to absorption

...

2010-11-12T11:08:00.000-08:00

the more surreal i make things
the more real they get

my madness is near full circle

soon
when i go there
i can finally stay

...

2010-11-10T00:44:00.001-08:00

Enter dark steel nights of razor thin vision. The portable nature of human lust. The gleam of reflection fading dim from the relentless stains that can't be wiped away fast enough.

Enter rain soaked street corners dripping of impatience for the signal to cross, impatient enough to risk the wrath of the order of things. Chilled fingers prying for warm regions beneath tapestry and tarp.

Enter whores with their unskilled laymen in tow. Slit skirt peeks between swagger and sway. Fingers fumbling with hooks and zippers. The smell of cheap perfume covering smells of salt cured jizz encrusted upon lackluster shields.

...

2010-11-07T15:14:00.000-08:00

Death Nell 3, the third after a prior two, knew her time was soon up in one of the next few future unknown circumstances. She carried the knowledge concerning the deaths of former Nells 1&2—a template for probability. So as far as the present tense was concerned, recklessness was the order of the moment.
The engine wasn’t working all that hard. These older big-blocks didn’t have to, and Nell wasn’t feeling the straddled power. Yet she was wide open in a super-glide state of mind, the speedometer pushing 110 with nary a vibration….

...

2010-11-07T15:12:00.001-08:00

spontaneous this blissful pulling at fragments, mind shrapnel dispersed throughout the air, these primal pixies plucking a loose goose down in the midst of an unexpected updraft and all the while as resonant harmonies emanate from passionate souls concerning pinot gris chased corn dogs and cormorant totems, sweet queens–saviors of dilapidated downtowns, the longest intentional distance between two points: a rioja that drapes across the tongue like a satin sheet in search of eloquence amongst all the flannel and gortex, a sprite bitter ale… stories to be topped with curried eggs, vindaloo hatchings denoting resurrected renewal cooled with roman effervescence… where’s the sacrilege in that? …and later, a slab of glazed easter ham in hand whilst standing ankle deep in the warmth of a precautionary wake…

...

2010-11-07T15:11:00.001-08:00

again the need to be the martyr
how many same times disemboweled
falling on that familiar rusted sword
they lied like you new they would
and where is the surprise in that
now that your soapbox has caved in
where are the promises for change
the hope beyond the same
the dream beyond shareholder residuals
like putting your money where your mouth is
has some sort of newfangled hip drip
a trickle up play on an old game
this sword doesn’t cut like it used to
its edge dinged dull from missed targets
once was a slice and now but a jagged tear
blood is always
the same
color

...

2010-11-07T15:10:00.000-08:00

they want our allegiance
they offer us honor
we are expendable

they want our children
they offer us a nation’s gratitude
we can always make more

they want our indebtedness
they offer us trickle down
we can flip burgers

they want us to spend
they offer us abundance
we can use plastic

they want us in SUV’s
they offer us GPS
we can’t get a bus

they want interest with penalty
they offer the first month free
we get a three year commitment

they want a class of their own
they offer a class of our own
we can wax their limos

...

2010-11-07T15:09:00.001-08:00

this a rationale or not
delving into such a realm
where resonant harmonies
are translated
dots connected
over whispered melds
and folded blends
a place to teeter
unsheltered from gust or gale
a place to balance
between
outside looking end

...

2010-11-07T15:08:00.001-08:00

these doors
are locked
but
we appreciate
your concerns
yet
they
belong to us
and how
we
go about
utilizing
our
resources
is
our
prerogative
our
right
by the laws
of secured
accumulation
granted to
us
by the lawgivers
of
our choosing
actually
it all
really belongs
to us
the planet
at least
and though
we
are in
the process
of negotiating
contracts
for the remaining
solar system
we feel
it best served
to absorb
as much
profitability
here first
once
that metric
exhausted
control may be
relinquished
for a
reasonable price
with great rates
and terms
of course
all pertinent
items
as is

...

2010-11-07T15:07:00.001-08:00

These dearest of friends hitting such long detested and inevitable milestones; were we not by proclamation and anthem supposed to stay young forever? Did we not always fight the good fight and eventually build our invisibilities into the same barriers we are now about to breach? And the weight that now perceptively collapses about us, those girders of such formerly defiant steel seemingly worn and rusted and buckling, and the only real fault that exists is our own inability to recognize we are really where we all the long wanted to be, needed to be, had to be. “Charlie stole the hammer, and the train, she won’t stop rolling, no she wouldn’t slow down.” To tickle the 60 and 70 threshold only means we finally do know more than everyone else. We have forgotten more than most will ever discover. And yet, we sit poised to reinvent, remake, and enlighten even the darkest and dankest of prefabbed blight. We don’t need to worry if no one is listening—only that we are not loud enough to penetrate all the irrelevant noise. How can one ever be exhausted from the grapple for significance when the herd lays grazing before us? How we love to shock the sheep out of the trance of submission, boldly going where not enough have gone before because a repetitive perpetual life by default is only food for someone elses gullet… and we have just begun to feed…

...

2010-11-07T09:29:00.001-08:00

dear peasants, serfs, and plebes,

how goes all that bowing to the lords of engulf and devour?

no subjection

2010-11-07T08:47:00.001-08:00

since the newest renewed recycled "real" seems so unreal, topsy turvy tumbled into another pile of dryer lint, I'm retreating into the surreal where it's safe, where navel lint rules the day, where I am the keeper

if there's a cure for this, don't bother

the disease is a welcome distraction

...

2010-11-06T02:37:00.001-07:00

the worst peasant is an educated one. the worst serf, sophisticated. fie ye of self imposed deficient stature. how shall you be continually subdued? how will you submit knowing what you know. how shall you assimilate and become expendable, acceptable collateral damage? When should we start eradicating?

when clans collide

2010-11-01T14:19:00.000-07:00

it used to be about those with versus those without. it used to be about the right against the left. but now it's back to the lowlands versus the highlands, scavengers and farmers versus hunters and raiders. there are times when humans amaze the gods and rotate for no extended purpose.

little people have their clan. they amass near forests and take solace in reuniting with their elf and nymph kin. they are now cannibals and prefer the tenderness of other small ones. they have many iron pots on open flame.

nuns encased in ironclad habits still fiercely protect their vaginas by proclaiming how the ownership of such portals belong to someone else--someone holier than thou. they still can be coerced by priests to spread their legs when divinely ordered.

humanity collapses then doesn't. the mask is just removed. tribes are reformed with a vivid primal brutality. the gods are amused.

it occurred as predicted, all the wealth removed from circulation. weaponry was invoked. escalation further stirred the pot. toppling and crumbling accelerated beyond tolerance. food lines. riots. Marshall Law. suspension of rights. suspension of humanity. we left the cities. we left the inlands for the outlands. we remained armed, not as a right, but for survival. not to collect subsistence but to keep from being eaten.

and now the question. how long will this last? when will we be able to begin to rebuild. when will the savagery subside long enough to contemplate our predicament? when will the raids cease?

diane arbus various

2010-11-01T11:29:00.000-07:00

as if

2010-10-31T23:02:00.000-07:00

as far as i can tell, i appear to be headed toward becoming a starving artist

as far as the degree of artistic qualification, it will depend on my ability and fortitude concerning technique, craftsmanship and content

as far as starving, i don't think that will require much practice

as far as selling ones art, a feudalistic economy does not bode well for a 54 year old flaneur and factotum

as far as the eye can see, there will be plenty of us crowded about with that panicked look of desperation trying to hide behind failing confident eyes while peddling our wares on streets of inequity

as for minimal survival, will dumpster diving or foraging in forests be the most preferred?

as for obtaining sustenance, will hunting for game over begging be a better buy of time and effort?

as far as suffering for ones art, which plays out the best?

as rural or urban primitive?

...

2010-10-31T10:18:00.001-07:00

the rain drops are finding their way between sunbeam and ray, the globules turned spectral full color spectrum prisms bend the beams this way and that

marriage interrupted

2010-10-29T20:26:00.001-07:00

trust: the one uncompromising element, the one guarantee that binds... betrayed...

...

2010-10-29T15:06:00.000-07:00

as it turned out, i wasn't even an aforementioned
in fact, i was but only an on second thought
nothing overly honorable worthy of a place
lagging in the attributes required to place
i took 5th when i should've taken 3rd
when i rounded 2nd
when the lines formed
when i applied to qualify

...

2010-10-29T07:20:00.001-07:00

walking unsuspectedly around alley ways because shortcuts are what alleys are all about, not utility access for commercial waste, that's what they think just because there's a monthly fee involved

noncommercial waste isn't spilling out dumpsters or leaking from oil barrels

noncommercial waste includes piles of dead monkeys and feudal serfs with pitchforks loading them on plywood sheets before they decompose and all that dead monkey juice seeps into sewers and then into the groundwater where we all conceivably could sip from that defiled goblet

piles of dead monkeys are dangerous that way

dead monkeys need to be spread thin over a larger area and not bunched up so much, like in alleys where they can hide in piles and seep

...

2010-10-28T21:10:00.001-07:00

is this what schizophrenia can be like when the people in the corners and stairwells know you know and they can't let that get out to the media so basically they will kill you as soon as they get the chance, when no one is looking so it would probably be best if you didn't go to the bathroom alone or forget something you had to run back for and catch up with everyone later? is that it in a nutshell?

...

2010-10-28T09:39:00.000-07:00

i have no clue as to their dilemma
i cannot begin to suspect the reason
i only know how i feel when i see them

a mother and daughter?
older and younger sisters?

heavy bundled clothing draped upon backpack
just the physical burden please
three sizes too big hooded sweater for the child
a shroud for the new unholy

they stroll down from the revetment
and i only have assumptions
because i cannot bare to approach them

i can't ask the question that needs asked